


No Time At All

by willgrahamchops



Category: Donnie Darko (2001)
Genre: Brainwashing, M/M, Mind Control, Other, Telepathic Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:00:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willgrahamchops/pseuds/willgrahamchops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You will lose everything you love, Donnie.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Frank is always saying dumb things like that. All Donnie can do is snort and tilt his head back into the pillow, squinting until Frank is just a tiny grey blur between his eyelids. “Not you,” Donnie says.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Time At All

**Author's Note:**

> There's pretty much no Frank/Donnie out there, and what does exist is mostly Donnie getting it on with Elisabeth's stoner boyfriend (I'm assuming he's a stoner since that's James Duval's niche), so I decided to remedy that. Tried to write a realistic sex scene between the two of them, so obviously: 
> 
> WARNING: Dark and weird.
> 
> PS: if there is anyone still in this fandom please write s.o.s. it's an emergency

Donnie doesn't sleep much these days, but it's not for lack of trying. He doesn't care that he loses control of himself when he closes his eyes. He's not scared.

Sometimes he falls asleep when he doesn't mean to, in class or in town, and he doesn't mind much because he knows his body needs it, knows that he wouldn't survive another sleepless night otherwise. Sometimes he thinks he's dying.

When he finally locks himself in his room – _too bad it only locks from the inside_ , he thinks – it's as if the past nine hours never happened. He can't even remember school. He talked to Gretchen in the hallway, maybe, and she touched his shoulder in that way that reminds him how fragile she is, how transient they are. Whatever.

The room is nice and new and shiny. Better than new. He throws his jeans on the floor when he changes, just so it doesn't feel so damn clinical – it'll smell like _his_ room again in a few days. Most of his drawings got wrecked or thrown out during construction, but that's okay because they were shitty anyway. The important part is that he still has his pencils, his good pencils that he stole from the art room along with a kneaded eraser and a stapler. He doesn't have anything to staple, but it looks nice on his desk.

Donnie draws. He starts with Gretchen, because there's this image of her stuck in his head and he just wants her to go away right now, okay, and maybe if he puts her on paper he can forget about it for awhile. It doesn't look anything like her, though. Eyes all wrong. He smudges them out.

That's about when he notices the eyes on the back of his neck. Not eyes, really. _Something_ watching him. He resolutely refuses to turn around until he finishes another sketch. It doesn't matter that this second one looks nothing like her either because Donnie isn't thinking about Gretchen anymore. She's the furthest thing from his mind right now. He holds up the sketch and is surprised to see that one of her eyes is completely missing this time, a dark swath of charcoal pencil in its place. Oops.

This is the routine. He brushes his teeth, flushes one of his pills; he doesn't acknowledge that anything's amiss until he's safely in bed. He spreads out on top of the crisp sheets; no use messing them up until he knows where he's passing out tonight. 

Finally, he takes a deep breath and looks toward the figure in the corner of the room. He's never been less afraid. 

“Frank,” he breathes.

“Donnie,” Frank replies, his voice buzzing like a trapped bee in Donnie's skull. Frank doesn't move. Sometimes he says more, but this time he remains silent as Donnie waits for the familiar sensation of his brain disconnecting from the rest of his body. 

It starts as a faint tingling in his fingers and toes and spreads up his legs, down his arms, and like warm water poured in through his extremities, it fills the empty cavity of his chest. When he's so full up that his body is humming with it, Donnie tries to twitch his fingers. He tries harder. He tries to sit up. Nothing happens. He can only move his head now – though Donnie is beginning to think he doesn't need use of his mouth to communicate, that maybe they share some sort of telepathic connection, he gets to use it anyway. He takes advantage of this.

“Frank,” he grins.

He's grown to enjoy losing control this way.

It scared him at first, fucking terrified him the first time he woke up completely paralyzed. He fought it until his face was red and he was hyperventilating, and then he fought some more, all without so much as a twitch from his unresponsive body. Then, without his consent, his hands folded across his chest. Frank left.

He knows now that this was Frank's way of easing him into it, which, if he's being honest, was quite considerate of him. This was Frank's way of showing Donnie how completely powerless he was. Donnie got used to it.

Now, he can at least say he doesn't dread these encounters. Frank, in all of his mystery and in his stupid rabbit costume, is only looking out for Donnie's best interests. He doesn't know much about Frank, but Donnie's pretty sure he's omnipotent, or at least close. Frank, on the other hand, knows what Donnie needs much better than Donnie does – and that's why he's not scared. 

Sometimes Frank makes him sleepwalk, but most of the time he doesn't. Not tonight. Donnie remains motionless on top of the covers, watching Frank's still figure with hooded eyes.

“You are troubled,” Frank says.

Donnie grins. He can never stop grinning around Frank. “'M not,” he says, as if Frank doesn't know better.

“You will lose everything you love, Donnie.”

Frank is always saying dumb things like that. All Donnie can do is snort and tilt his head back into the pillow, squinting until Frank is just a tiny grey blur between his eyelids. “Not you,” Donnie says. This is a point Frank has driven home so often that it's instinctive for Donnie to repeat it.

He's rewarded with a pulse of warmth through his useless body. The cement inside his limbs seems to liquify for a moment, allowing him to shudder in happiness, and Donnie can feel his thoughts slipping away from him. Oh well, Frank can have them. He doesn't like thinking anyway.

“You gonna show me around tonight?” Donnie asks, voice hoarse. Some nights, Frank takes him to other places, dead worlds and crumbling universes. To show him how good he has it, Donnie thinks.

But Frank shakes his head 'no' in two distinct, jerky motions. He steps forward until he's at the foot of the bed, looming over him, the pale edges of his mask illuminated in the waxing moonlight. 

This is when Frank usually lets him lose himself inside his own head, drifting in and out of dreams and ideas of Frank's creation – _why does he bother?_ Donnie wonders. He thinks a six foot tall rabbit would have better things to do than watch him sleep, like maybe he could hide out under kids' beds or something. But he doesn't. Frank is always by his side, every night without fail since Donnie's brush with death.

Donnie decides to test his luck. “Tell me again,” he says. “'Bout the plan.”

Frank is quiet for a moment, and then, in that voice that resonates like a church bell throughout Donnie's entire body: “You play an important role in restoring balance to your universe. You are important.”

That's right, Donnie is important. “And what do I have to do?” He asks.

“You need only to obey me.”

He tries to twitch his feet, but it's as if they don't exist anymore. It's like what he's heard about phantom limbs – he can still feel them there, but nothing he can do will make them move. Everything is so warm. He realizes he's breathing heavily.

“Obey,” Donnie repeats under his breath. He likes the way the word feels in his mouth, heavy and reassuring. He doesn't have to make any decisions here. There's no room for him to fuck up.

Frank hears this, even though it's in Donnie's head. He knows because the heat is back, some kind of supernatural energy hitting him in waves. It feels like sinking into a hot tub on a winter's day. Like sex. Better. 

Donnie tries absently to unbutton his jeans, is frustrated to find that he can't.

“Is that what you want?” Frank asks.

Donnie lolls his head to the side and bites his lip, smiling coyly. It's stupid. Frank probably can't even see through that dumb costume. “I dunno,” he mumbles. “You tell me what I want.”

He's pleasantly surprised to find his hands moving of their own accord, unzipping his fly and pushing his jeans down his thighs. His whole body works in cooperation to take them off completely, and it's so fucking surreal, feeling himself move but not being able to anticipate his next action. Stripped down to his shirt and boxers, he involuntarily rests his hands on his thighs, where they remain awkwardly stiff.

“Yeah,” Donnie breathes. “Let me.”

Maybe this is weird; maybe Donnie's imaginary friend shouldn't make him feel this way, but it doesn't _feel_ weird. It feels like the most natural thing in the world. Him and Frank. Frank and Donnie. Nobody else stays.

“And if I refuse?”

He meets Frank's eyes, or at least looks toward where they should be. He doesn't hesitate. “I can't. I _won't._ ”

Frank nods.

He doesn't know what Frank gets out of this, but he might be trying to brainwash him. Donnie doesn't care. He's probably better off thinking stuff Frank puts in his head anyway, because Frank's omnipotent and Donnie's just a dumb kid – but he knows what _he_ gets out of it, besides the fuzzy feeling of being important and the total relief of not being responsible for his actions. This. This is fucking amazing.

One hand cups him through his boxers, not moving, just teasing. Donnie belatedly realizes that this is _Frank_ touching him, at least by proxy. His face hurts from grinning.

“Frank,” he whispers. “Frank, Frank, Frankie.” There's another word that feels good to say.

Donnie giggles as he – as Frank – begins stroking him through the thin fabric. It's different.

Those two words stick in his head – 'obey,' and 'Frank,' – and he repeats them like a mantra, keeping him grounded. Keeping his hand moving.

“More,” Donnie asks after a few moments. He asks without expectation, because Frank is perfectly capable of leaving him like this, but he's happy to see himself remove his boxers. 

This wasn't weird the first time, and it's not weird now. It's only a natural extension of his relationship with Frank. If everyone else is going to leave him, well, Frank's just gonna have to fill this role too. He doesn't need anybody else.

He _wants_ , though. Wants a girl, warm and soft under his hands. Wants Gretchen. Donnie imagines kissing her gently, imagines bending her backwards over Mrs. Farmer's desk and hitching her legs up over his shoulders. Imagines fucking her.

“Stay here,” says Frank.

Donnie bites his lip. “Oh, 'm sorry.”

He stops thinking about fucking Gretchen. Not thinking about her would be really hard to do, except he can feel Frank in his head too, pushing those thoughts away and replacing them with... nothing. No, it's not nothing; it's just peace. Donnie is at peace with his purpose in life.

He remembers what Frank said, about him being an important part of the plan. Remembers how important it is to do everything Frank says.

Donnie pulls himself out of his boxers – well, Frank does that. _Lets_ Donnie do it. He cranes his neck to get a better look. He's half hard from thinking about Gretchen.

And he wants to move, wants to kick and squirm around just to rid himself of all the happy energy building up inside him, because it's happening soon, and Donnie's gonna save the world. He's the only one who can do it. He's important.

Frank pulls him out of his boxers. He cranes his neck to get a better look. He's half hard from thinking about the plan.

“ _Please_ ,” Donnie begs, watching Frank from under his eyelids. “Touch me.”

But his hand remains motionless. Frank doesn't say a word. It's so frustrating when he doesn't know what Frank wants of him, when he has to guess, because Donnie doesn't know shit. He has no clue what's going through Frank's head. He just knows that he needs – needs something. Donnie tries to concentrate. He needs-- 

Frank keeps him still.

“ _Please_ ,” Donnie begs, watching Frank from under his eyelids. “Tell me how long.”

Before the words are even out of his mouth, Frank's voice makes itself known. “Eleven days,” Frank says, “Seven hours, fourteen minutes, twenty-three seconds.”

That's how long. That's when Donnie's going to save the world. And warmth flows through him, lighting his nerves on fire.

“Fuck,” Donnie breathes. “Again.”

Frank doesn't speak, not out of his mouth or anything, Donnie realizes, but rather projects himself directly into Donnie's brain. “Eleven days,” Frank says, “Seven hours, thirteen minutes, forty-nine seconds.”

He's rewarded with a gentle pressure just under the head of his cock, his thumb rubbing slow circles there. He's hard and dripping over his fist. Eleven days. He's going to serve his purpose.

He must be blushing – his face feels ridiculously hot, from doing this in front of Frank. Frank's watching him touch himself. More than that. Frank's making it happen, feeding Donnie these sensations, making him feel good. It's so intimate. 

So weirdly intimate. 

Maybe he shouldn't be sharing his brain space after all, because really, this all seems sort of –

Pain shoots up Donnie's spine, its origin indiscernible. 

But it dissipates, because he's not actually hurt; this is all in his –

Except it's fucking agonizing. 

But it's not, it's not fucking _real_ – 

It's the worst pain Donnie has ever felt, and even worse is the sudden knowledge that it's not confined by physical limitations. It could be infinitely worse, doubling and tripling until pain becomes Donnie's world, until it's all he feels and all he's felt and all he'll ever know.

“No,” Donnie chokes. He can't breathe. “Frank!” 

Where's Frank? Donnie can't find Frank. Frank has left him and in his place is only this unbearable pain. 

“Frank, please – fuck, _please Frank please come back_ \--”

And all at once the pain is gone. He's somewhere warm and safe. Where? He cracks open his eyes. Of course, he's in his room. And there's Frank, standing at the foot of his bed.

“Frank,” Donnie sniffs. Has he been crying? His voice is wrecked and everything is coming out as a jumbled mess. “Frank, I thought you were gone, I was so scared, Frank it _hurt Frank why did it hurt?_ ”

A wave of calm washes over him. “I am with you,” Frank says. “I will always be with you.”

Donnie lets out a sigh of relief. He suddenly understands that the pain is caused by disobeying Frank. It pulls them apart. The space where Frank lives in Donnie's mind – when Frank is gone there's nothing to fill it, so all the pain in the universe floods in.

But Frank is here. Frank will always be here, as long as Donnie obeys him and follows through with the plan. Frank will keep him safe from pain.

Pleasure rushes into Donnie's body again, stronger than he's ever felt it, and this time it has a name. He realizes that this feeling isn't Frank's doing; it is Frank. Laughter bubbles up from Donnie's sore throat, and he smiles through the tears. They're so close, Frank is _inside_ of him. And still he wants more.

“Tell me,” Donnie says. The answer reverberates in the empty cavern of his skull.

“Eleven days, seven hours, ten minutes, twenty-nine seconds.”

His hand strokes his cock slowly. It's not enough.

“Tell me, Frank,” Donnie says.

He searches around his head and finds Frank, but the presence is too vague for him to pinpoint. He wants to touch it.

“Eleven days, seven hours, ten minutes, twenty-one seconds.”

Frank's hand strokes his cock slowly. It's not enough.

“Tell me, Frank,” Donnie says.

“You are important,” says Frank. “You are the only one who can execute the plan.”

His hand speeds up, and Donnie desperately wants to buck into it but his hips remain still, like someone's holding them down.

Someone is. Someone inside his head. If he could just focus hard enough, he knows he could find him. He's there somewhere. Donnie squeezes his eyes shut in concentration. He needs to find Frank, needs to touch him.

“Frank,” he moans.

“You will lose everything you love, Donnie. In the end, only I will remain.”

Frank's hand speeds up, and Donnie desperately wants to buck into it but his hips remain still, because Frank's holding them down.

So close. If he could only find--

And then Donnie's entire world contracts into one point. It's hard to explain, it's like this tiny little thing that's always been a part of him has suddenly expanded to become _all_ of him, and it fills him up. All the uncertainty, the self-doubt, it's replaced with this one little thing. With Frank.

“Open your eyes,” says Frank. Donnie does.

And there he is. Frank is on top of him, naked, knees braced on either side of Donnie's hips, staring down at him with one piercing eye and one empty socket. His dark hair hangs partially in his face, swaying with every motion.

He's not completely there; rather, he's partially translucent, flickering between the physical and ethereal. He can't be there completely, because Frank is still standing at the foot of Donnie's bed, wearing his big stupid rabbit costume, but he's real enough that Donnie can feel the rough skin of his hand, pumping him with singleminded determination. 

Something weird happens. Donnie's body starts flickering too. One second he's rigid on the bed, and the next his feet are locked behind Frank's shoulders. Donnie giggles. It's the same position as in his fantasy, except now Frank is Donnie and Donnie is – whoever. Donnie's the one getting fucked. And he was pretty sure this was supposed to hurt, 'cause that's what girls always say, but it doesn't. Maybe it's because Frank isn't really down there. He's really there, really inside Donnie, but he's not in one single place, he's everywhere. He's in Donnie's chest and his arms and his toes and his head, behind his eyelids and in the back of his throat. 

He's never felt anything like this, and he's pretty sure most people _never_ feel anything like this. He's so close to Frank it's like there was never any border at all. Full up. Full of Frank. Donnie giggles.

Frank silences him with a kiss unlike any of Donnie's previous kisses. It's like he's operating on two different planes – he can feel it, feel Frank's warm mouth on his and Frank's hair tickling his neck, but it's also not happening because it's only the idea of a kiss. It's nice either way.

How long has it been since he opened his eyes?

“Not even a second,” Frank whispers into his mouth. “No time at all.”

When Donnie speaks, his lips move right through Frank's like they aren't even there. “I don't want it to end,” he says.

“Yes you do,” says Frank. His voice has lost it's buzzing quality. Instead it's muffled, maybe because there's no room left in Donnie for it to reverberate.

And he does want it to end, he realizes, because it gets so much better.

Frank flickers away from his mouth. Donnie misses the warmth of his body, but then he feels a pulse of heat flow up from his toes.

“Frank,” Donnie whispers.

“I'm here,” says Frank. And Donnie realizes that Frank is fucking him, moving his hips and slamming into Donnie with all the vigor of – well.

Donnie giggles. 

Frank looks up from what he's doing and quirks an eyebrow, which is really weird because Donnie's never seen him use facial expressions before.

“You're a bunny,” Donnie laughs. “And bunnies fuck, like, you know--”

Frank shuts him up with another freaky shift in position. He flickers into existence with an arm braced on Donnie's chest, his face so close that Donnie can feel his breath. It's cold, but he doesn't find that strange.

“Eleven days,” he says.

Donnie lets out a surprised little 'oh' at the pleasure that courses through him.

“Seven hours.”

Frank slams into him. His hair hangs down around Donnie's face, so he can't sense anything but Frank. Two Franks: one at the foot of his bed, watching, and one fucking him. 

Jesus Christ. Frank's _fucking_ him.

“Ten minutes.”

His cock rubs against Frank's stomach with every thrust, and nothing has ever felt as good as this.

Donnie realizes he's talking, repeating things Frank has told him and begging, 'please Frank need you Frank _tell me, how long Frank how long how long_ \--'

“Three seconds.”

Donnie comes. At least, he thinks it's probably something like that. His eyes are open.

He watches as Frank sinks into him – literally, his body seems to fade and merge into Donnie's, and with it comes that unbearable, perfect heat. He doesn't know what he's feeling, pleasure so overwhelming that he doesn't have a name for it because it's not something a normal person is ever supposed to feel. He's not a normal person. He's Frank's person, and Frank is the one pushing it through him, tempering it so it doesn't blow any circuits along the way.

Donnie can't figure out what's he's supposed to do, so he just laughs and takes it. He laughs until his chest hurts and his eyes are watering. If he could move, he would have fallen off the bed by now.

Frank is watching Donnie from the foot of the bed. He's everywhere.

He doesn't know how long it lasts. Less than a second. No time at all, Frank says.

He doesn't need to know anything. He just has to keep his mind empty for anything Frank wants to put in there.

Frank is watching Donnie from the foot of the bed. He's everywhere.

He doesn't know how long it lasts. Less than a second. 

No time at all, Frank says.

 

Donnie wakes up under his covers, wearing his pajamas, warm. 

His alarm is going to go off in three minutes, so he turns it off before that can happen. Weird. 

Donnie yawns and slides out of bed.

Three minutes means he has enough time to really look at himself in the mirror this morning, so he does. He has dark circles under his eyes, but that's nothing new. Actually, he looks kind of... better, today. Better than he's looked in awhile. Maybe it's just in his head.

He heats up a poptart and drags Samantha to the bus stop. She asks him to carry her backpack. Today, Donnie doesn't mind.


End file.
